


Local Call

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-08
Updated: 2002-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 10:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/355813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reach out and touch someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Local Call

## Local Call

by Grail

<http://www.livejournal.com/users/bookend>

* * *

Title: Local Call 

Author: Grail 

Summary: Reach out and touch someone. 

Rating: NC-17 

Disclaimer: If they were mine, there'd be an episode involving strawberries and chocolate sauce. 

Feedback: Beats the hell out of kryptonite: grail@graffiti.net 

* * *

"No." 

"'No'?" 

"No. Absolutely not." 

"Clark -- " 

"No." 

"Look -- " 

"Tickets, Lex." Clark enunciates clearly. "Basketball. Biggest game of the year. Private box." 

"Second biggest," Lex reminds. "Final game's next week. We'll go to that. I promise." 

"Basketball," says Clark. 

Lex laughs, a low sound made fainter by obligatory cell phone static. "Clark. I still want you to go. Take Pete. Your dad. I'll send the limo." 

"Dad'd rather walk." 

"Clark." 

"No. You're coming." 

"When you get back, maybe." 

Clark grins. Hooks the cordless in closer with the upward tilt of his shoulder. "I thought you were sick." 

Rasp of Lex's voice across the phone wires, across miles, across Clark's skin like stubble that he doesn't have. "I am. Chicken soup and everything. Generic pharmaceutical drugs. Tissues." 

"Liar." 

Lex coughs, rather blatantly, into the receiver. 

"You don't get sick." 

"Clark. This isn't a Bruce Willis movie. Of course I do." 

"Liar," Clark says again. "You're trying to get out of the game. Like the concert last month." 

Lex's tone goes deeper, grates. Tries to. "Deathly ill, and no one believes me." 

Clark sits down. Tugs on a sock. "Lex. You don't have a head cold. You sound like a phone sex operator. What happened?" 

"Cough syrup," Lex provides. 

"Basketball." 

"Lozenges." 

"Private box." Clark's fingers are busy with his boot laces. "Tell me." 

So. "Potential takeover of a small company," Lex admits. "Paperwork for at least another five hours." Pause. The voice is back. "Phone sex operator. Clark, I'm impressed -- " 

"And lo, the farmboy lives in the new millennium." Clark rolls his eyes, pushes a hand through his hair. "Ask someone else to do it. You're supposed to be a tycoon. Tycoon someone." 

"That's rather elitist of you, Clark." Lex sounds amused. "Tycoon-in-training. My father wants to see if I can handle this one on my own. No lackeys." 

"Basketball," says Clark. 

Lex laughs. Sharp. Teeth, miles away, closing over Clark's ear. "Next week." 

Clark ducks away from the phone long enough to peel the blue t-shirt he'd been wearing up and over his head. "I'm wearing the black sweater." 

"What?" 

"The black sweater," Clark repeats. Tries not to smirk. Does it anyway. "The black sweater is appropriate for sitting in the Luthor private box on the second biggest basketball game of the year." 

"Clark." 

"What? No good?" 

"I beg you to wear that sweater. All the time." 

"I don't like black." 

"It looks good on you. Poetic." 

"Too pale. Looks like I'm about to die of poetic consumption." Clark fishes a folded-up bundle from inside his drawer. Rubs the material against his cheek. "Mmm. Cashmere." 

"Asshole." 

Maybe. 

"I washed these jeans the other night," Clark tells him conversationally. "I think I did something wrong. They're too tight." 

Lex's voice is something amalgamated from surprise and frustration. "Fuck." 

"Right," Clark agrees. "Which is why I'm not wearing boxers under them." 

"Clark." 

"Lex." 

"You are an evil phone whore." 

"Thank you." 

"Come over. Come over after the game." 

"Mom. Dad. Slumber party at Lex's. Because that would go over well." 

Lex considers. "Tell them you're staying at Pete's." 

"I've been 'at Pete's' so often, they're gonna start thinking I'm going out with him." 

Harsh bark of laughter, not unkind. "Nah. He's not your type." 

"No?" 

"You need someone who can keep you in cashmere sweaters." 

Clark grins. "Wow. Know anyone who's available?" 

Low, now, faux-sick darkening to growl: "There are simple laws of nature, Clark. You can't wear the black sweater and tight jeans and not come over here." 

"Lotion, too," he contributes. "Stole it from your bathroom." 

"Stole it from -- " 

"Smells like you," Clark says. "I had to." 

"Oh." And. Lex at a momentary loss for words. Priceless. Worth the minor offense of raiding his medicine cabinet. 

Clark takes a long moment in pulling the sweater on, imagining a caress that isn't cashmere. "I have a biology test tomorrow," he tells Lex. "I should study." 

"I know biology," Lex offers. "I'll teach you." 

Clark laughs. Lets his eyebrows go up. "With detailed diagrams?" 

"And demonstrations. Learning should have a more hands-on approach." 

Clark can feel Lex's voice. Like a pressure. Like a weight. Like a reason why championship basketball games suddenly don't seem important. 

Static crackles along crappy Kansas cell phone ranges and Lex says, "Clark. I'm going to be trapped in my office for five hours. The least you can do is come over after the game so I can take off those jeans -- " 

"What happened to the biology tutorial?" 

" -- with my teeth," Lex finishes. 

Clark sits down, he thinks, too fast. "You can do that?" 

"I can do that." 

"Um. Wow." 

"Thanks. I'm rather proud of the ability." 

"Is that something that they taught you at Princeton?" 

"Where else?" 

Clark rubs a hand against his thigh, feels friction. Heat beneath his fingers. "God, Lex." 

Static fades and Lex sounds closer. Close. "One of my favorite phrases. Somewhere right behind 'oh god, Lex, yes -- '" 

The surface of the jeans feels rough along the lack of calluses on Clark's palm. His hands have always refused the tough, farm-weathered wear of his father's, stayed smooth. Unchanged. "I want you." 

Lex's hands are callused with something like precision, made to fit a foil's grip. 

His voice tries for steady. 

Gets something else. "Or maybe that one's my favorite." 

"I," Clark says, and stops. 

Dangerous. Too dangerous, with Lex like a slow purr against his ear. "What do you want, Clark?" 

Something new, this. 

"What do you want me to do, Clark." It should be a question. 

It isn't. 

"I." Clark slides his hand higher. Closes his eyes so that for a moment the fingers on his thigh aren't his. "I want you to -- to touch me." 

"Everywhere," Lex agrees. "God, everywhere. Your skin's always so warm." 

Tight jeans are edging towards something like torturous. Clark tries: "And. Your...tongue." 

"Tell me." Too-glib remark about Lex sounding like phone sex, but, god, what they could make selling the rough cant of his voice on a street corner. 

Clark's teeth close out a moan. "I...I want..." 

"What." 

His hand moves in mindless circles against denim. 

Strokes. 

"Say it." 

Burst of exhaled breath. "Suck me." 

"You want my mouth on you." Lex has always been good at clarification. "You want me to suck your cock. You want me to swallow you. Say it, Clark." 

"...Yeah. Yes." Clark keeps forgetting how to breathe. Arches into the cup of his hand and into Lex's voice. "On your knees. Sucking my -- cock." 

"Fucking god, Clark." Lex might be panting. "Do you have any idea what you sound like?" 

"Cheap porn," Clark guesses. 

"Jagged," Lex corrects. "Rough. Fucking sexy." 

Clark likes that. Tries to control the color blossoming across his cheeks and the heat coiled tight in the pit of his stomach. "What -- what are you thinking about, Lex?" 

No hesitation. "The first time that I fucked you." 

And Clark thinks that maybe he doesn't have to breathe. 

Stranger things have happened. 

"The way you looked." 

His turn, then: "Tell me." Something like a whisper. Broken. 

"Jesus." Sharp intake of breath, and if Clark squeezes his eyes tight he can see Lex. Lex, pushed back against the leather of his office chair. Hand working between his legs. Long pale fingers. 

"Tight. Hot. Like a fever. Like a hallucination. Too good." 

"Lex -- " 

"Feeling you arch your back. Leaving your head thrown back like you...like you knew how much I needed to bite your throat." 

Clark nearly breaks the stupid fucking zipper. His cock feels heavy in his hand. Hot, like Lex had said. Lex. 

"Digging my fingers into your hair. Kissing you." 

"Fucking my mouth with your tongue." Clark wonders, belatedly, when exactly the farmboy vernacular extended into the ability to talk dirty. 

Lex's laugh like a hiss. "I wish I'd taped it. I wish I'd fucking taped it." 

Clark's hand has a mind of its own. Maybe it's Lex's. "No performance anxiety?" 

"Would have been worth it," Lex says, and his voice is this crazy thing, words working through the inability of breath. "Worth it to -- to see -- " 

"When I put my legs over your shoulders." Clark knows. Balances the weight of his cock in his palm and thinks that maybe he could live forever on what Lex's expression had been. "When I moved my legs up and you were trying to go slow and I just kind of -- " 

"Pulled me in," Lex says, and he sounds underwater. Drowning. Drowned. 

"It seemed like the thing to do," Clark reasons. Makes a fist and slides his hand upwards. Feels wetness and slicks himself, slicks his voice into some approximation of what Lex always says is sexy: "Felt right." 

"How did it feel, Clark?" 

"Told you." Clark suddenly wishes that telepathy was one of his gifts. Because. It's too fucking hard to talk with fingers wrapped around his cock and Lex against his ear. "Told you then." 

"You said, and I quote, 'Jesus Christ,' followed by a few expletives that I'm surprised your mother never washed out of your mouth. I would like," Lex says, and Clark imagines the languid rhythm of his fingers, "some specifics." 

"You've been fucked. I've," and there's something he wouldn't have minded taping, "fucked you. You know what it feels like." 

"Show you mine if you show me yours," Lex says. 

Clark tries not to squeeze too hard, a delayed reaction. "Christ." 

"We've been over that. Tell me, Clark. Say it." 

Rhythm and fingers. Pressure from the circle of his hand. 

"Clark." 

Heat and his thumb on the head like the remembered flicker of Lex's tongue. 

"Clark. Please don't make me come over there. If I lose this company I'll be more fucked than you're going to be after the game." 

"Hurt," Clark says. Closes his eyes and jerks his hand and sees himself hooking legs over the sweat-slicked edges of Lex's shoulders. Pressing him in, too quick, too fast, too good, Lex's sharp surprised intake of breath and reflexive clutch of his fingers at nothing. Instinctive push of his hips and. Lex's expression like it was Christmas and he'd finally been let out of the coatroom. 

"Hurt, like you said it would. Hurt like I thought maybe dropping out of school and staying like that was a great idea." 

Silence. Thinks maybe he can hear Lex's tongue glide along his lip and Clark could. Die like this. 

"Felt. Good." Monosyllables are good, too. So, apparently, are understatements. Clark grips at his cock and the phone and remembers."You were still moving too slowly. That's why I bit you." 

Dry: "I went a little faster after that." 

"We almost broke the bed," Clark laughs. Wishes the pull of his hand could be a substitute for the absent feel of Lex's abdomen, rocking with their bodies' momentum. Then, almost tentative: "I like having you in me." 

"That's...good." Lex's sarcasm only clicks in after the fact: his breath's coming shorter, jerkier. "Can I have that in writing?" 

"'Dear Lex. I love the way your big cock feels in my ass. Hugs and kisses, Clark.'" Clark's hand moves, fast, faster. Promise of release curling his toes. Audacity staining his cheeks red, but what the hell. "Think Hallmark makes a card for that occasion?" 

"Jesus Christ, Clark. I need to call you more." Lex might be panting. "Now you're sounding like cheap porn. I'm proud." 

Clark leans the phone into his shoulder, frees a hand to cup his balls. Screws any remaining shred of dignity by moaning full-on into the receiver. "Fuck me, Lex." Sharp turn of his wrist. "Hard. Fast. Slam me against the bed. Deep as you can." 

"Clark -- " 

Clark hopes that he's still speaking with something approaching coherency. "You're going to suck my cock when you come. So. Come." 

"I -- " 

"Come, Lex. Fucking come." Incoherency, now, in the motion of thrusts against his palm. "Lex." 

Strangled air, and it's soundless noise that's as well-known now as his own heartbeat. Imagined scent of Lex seeping into his skin. 

Lex's body, drawn out, tensed, aching, and. 

Coming because Clark told him to. 

Fuck. 

Lex is saying something, forming words, spouting curses and compliments, but Clark is mindless, vacant, worthless. Movement and heat and motion. 

Friction like a drug. 

Comes with something like pain, like the pain of Lex's cock thrust into him for the first time. Comes with something like the best kind of satisfaction he's known. 

Knocks his head back against the arm of the couch and. Doesn't care. 

And Clark will. 

Never be able to look Lex in the eyes again without the remembered lull of his voice, low, porn-rough, strung out between them. 

Come, Lex. Fucking come. 

Never be able to look at a phone. Ever. Again. 

It's propped up against his arm and Lex is still talking, voice behind the overheated plastic. 

Clark swallows. 

Remembers that he speaks English. That he should be able to understand the complete sentences and phrases that Lex is currently utilizing. 

Lex. Sounding a little lost. A little shocked. A lot...pleased. Pleased. Clark presses his ear back against the phone. 

"The next time you save my life," Lex is saying, "Which, by Smallville calculations, should be in two or three days, I'm buying you a cell phone." 

Clark laughs, verging on what might be a tiny bit hysterical. 

Doesn't trust his voice. 

"Then, when your father returns that one, I'm going to start leaving cell phones around your house. In your sock drawer. In your bookbag. In the space between your bed and the wall. In the fucking hay stacks." And. Lex might be a little hysterical, too. 

"Nrrgh," from Clark. 

"The farmboy thing's an act," Lex murmurs, and voice has settled down with breath, slow. Elegant. Lex. "I'm on to you, Kent. You've been moonlighting in phone sex." 

"I was going to tell you eventually." Clark grins, ridiculously pleased to be in possession of functional vocal chords. "Lex?" 

Pause. "Clark. Just so you know. I can be at the barn in fifteen minutes. If you say anything even remotely sexy, you're going to lose LuthorCorp two hundred and fifty million dollars." He can taste the half-smile curving Lex's mouth. "If you're comfortable with that, so am I." 

"Basketball," says Clark. 

"Fair enough." He likes startling Lex into a laugh. "Just come over after. We'll do biology." 

"Hands-on learning?" 

"The only kind." 

"Lex." 

"Clark." 

"I'm pretty sure that you've made me into a permanently evil phone whore." 

"How can we be completely sure?" 

"You might have to call me every night. Some mornings. Afternoons are good." 

"Clark." 

"Lex." 

"Is the black sweater...okay?" 

"Hmm. Salvageable." 

"Because. I'm going to get it off you. With. No hands." 

"Interesting skill. Princeton?" 

"Yale." 

"Nice." 

"Clark. Just so you know. I'm going to fuck you into next week." 

"Is that a promise?" 

"A given." 

"Hey, man. As long as you can put your money where your mouth is." 


End file.
